


The Loyal Opposition

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill, The West Wing
Genre: American Politics, Brad POV, Brad and Ainsley become BFFs, F/M, M/M, News Media, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Political Campaigns, Post-Canon, Seaborn For President
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Brad Colbert, Christ-Killer."</p><p>"Ainsley Seaborn, Blond Republican Sex Kitten."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loyal Opposition

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> Written for [](http://bijoux.livejournal.com/profile)[**bijoux**](http://bijoux.livejournal.com/) for [](http://4_a_star.livejournal.com/profile)[**4_a_star**](http://4_a_star.livejournal.com/). Crossover with _The West Wing_ , though you needn't be familiar with that show to read this. If you're interested, however, [this vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eQRhL2E_Uo) is a good intro to who Ainsley is. Epic thanks to [](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ricochet**](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/560380.html#cutid1).

"We all know I'm only in this debate because Anderson Cooper thinks I'm hot," Nate said, dry enough to suck the air from the room. 

Which then burst into laughter and applause. 

It was the leading clip on every major news network, repeated ad nauseum. It trended on Twitter, with some lewdly creative hashtags utilizing his last name. It was embraced by sketch comedians, even commented on by Anderson Cooper himself ("You give me too much credit, but were that true, you can't fault my taste"). Buttons and t-shirts appeared overnight. And, the true gold standard, Republican opposition groups made fundraising ads decrying the godless liberal fags out to force everyone into bondage and blowjobs. 

All amidst a staggering leap in his poll numbers. 

And thus Nate's pathetically idealistic, issue-focused attempt to force the debate somewhere useful turned into a legitimate candidacy overnight. 

Vanity campaign, _his ass_. 

***

"The job of a candidate's spouse is to be as uncontroversial as possible. Failed campaigns of the past are riddled with the distractions of a candidate's spouse; they must always be wary of undermining or overshadowing the candidate."

"So you think Brad Colbert is undermining Fick's campaign?"

"Goodness—doesn't everyone?" 

***

"Brad Colbert, Christ-Killer."

"Ainsley Seaborn, Blond Republican Sex Kitten," Ainsley said, deadpan. She took his offered hand firmly. 

"That explains a few things," Brad said.

"Like what?"

"Like how a dyed-in-the-wool commie marries a Republican southern belle. And oh, look. It appears they've seated the two traitors together." He gestured to their adjacent seats. 

"Yes, two Republicans, obviously we'll be the best of friends," she said as she sat. 

"They're hoping we despise each other or start a torrid affair. Or both."

"There's just one problem with that."

"You don't have a dick."

"Okay, two problems," she allowed.

He regarded her for a moment, taking in the amused quirk to her lips, her comfort amidst the chaotic swirl of the second debate. "You're not entirely odious," he decided. 

She grinned. "This how you start all your torrid affairs?" 

***

"The CNBC Democratic Presidential debate allowed the ten candidates to make their case to the American people tonight, with a surprising amount of frank talk thanks to the likes of Nate Fick, the youngest contender on stage. Though the dark horse in this race, he also set the pace, sounding more like a general election candidate than one for the Democratic primary."

***

Brad stared at the stage, awed. These people were actually, functionally _delusional_. Hell, they might be clinically insane; they truly believed the real world worked this way. 

Goddamn, if the Democratic candidates for President didn't make Captain America seem stable by comparison. 

Nate valiantly tried to breathe some common sense into the proceedings, but his compatriots just blinked at him owlishly. It'd be funny if they weren't vying to be the leader of the free world. 

It was still funny. 

"Are you sure your husband's not a Republican?" Ainsley asked him, low, seemingly genuine in her curiosity. 

"He's in denial. We're working on it."

"Working on it by running for President as a Democrat? Good plan," she agreed.

During the next commercial break, Ainsley leaned over and murmured: "Count me glad that he's too young to get the nomination. Anyone else will give the Republicans a fighting chance."

"You want your husband to lose?" Brad shot back. 

"Either way I win." 

***

"In contrast to most candidates, both Seaborn and Fick have kept their spouses with them on the campaign trail. Others treat candidate spouses as ambassadors or surrogates, able to campaign alone. But both Seaborn and Fick are married to Republicans, unwelcome to most Democratic primary voters and the Democratic establishment, especially."

***

Nate disappeared backstage to prep for his speech, leaving Brad at their seats to be quietly ignored by the collected liberal horde. Just the way he liked it. He'd take the silent treatment over polite small talk any day. 

Then again, he'd take outright hostility over small talk, too, so that probably wasn't saying much. 

"'I'm a Republican; aren't we all money-grubbing, war-mongering, female-hating hypocrites out to screw the common man? Doesn't that bolster your preferred media narrative?'" Ainsley quoted his own words at him, incredulous. She dropped into the empty seat on his other side, casual despite the flame-red ball gown. 

So much for silence. 

Brad stared at her. Ainsley stared right back. 

Brad shrugged. "Am I wrong?"

"Learn from political wives, Brad. If you want to stay out of trouble, shut up and look pretty."

"Says the Republican wearing red to the Human Rights Council National Dinner." 

"Never said I wanted to stay out of trouble," Ainsley parried, dry. She swung her long, blond ponytail and eyed the others at their table. 

All of whom looked away, those champions of diversity. Diversity of thought, especially. 

But wait—she should be _reveling_ in all the self-destruction on display. She shouldn't be offering advice. "You realize we're opponents; shouldn't you _want_ me opening my mouth and getting in trouble?"

"I am a traitor. You may have heard," she said, unconcerned and unapologetic. 

Brad studied her, this woman offering advice against her own interests, taking amusement in others' mistreatment of her. Of both of them. 

"I prefer 'turncoat;' it's more colorful," he confided. 

"Because we need _more_ colorful descriptors for the two of us," she agreed. "But hey, at least we can be suspicious and untrustworthy together. Do you think they're serving beef?" she asked, abruptly jumping topics, looking around for the evening's menu.

He handed her the menu card. "And chicken."

"Fantastic. I'll have Sam's, too."

Brad gestured to the crowd, questioning. "And Sam is..."

"Oh, you know, making the rounds, apologizing for his wife, probably. It's better if I'm not around for that."

"You strike me as deeply apologetic."

"I do try." She glanced at the menu and made a little pleased noise. "Yes, flourless chocolate cake. I am set."

"Gonna have Sam's, too?"

"And possibly Nate's; he doesn't look like the death-by-chocolate type."

"You'll have to fight me for it."

She quickly sized him up. "I could take you."

Brad laughed aloud, getting the attention of several of the nearby guests. They quickly looked away again. 

Brad shook his head at them; he thought back to her opening salvo, the quote that was perhaps a smidge too honest for the media. "Since we're reading up on each other, did you really join the Bartlett White House because you felt a sense of duty?" 

"Yes."

"Because in the annals of shameless campaign spin, that's gotta be vying for some place of honor."

"Yes, but for the fact that it's not spin," she said simply, offering the waiter her wineglass and indicating she wanted red. Naturally. 

Brad considered how that must have gone. The right still hailed her a traitor, the left had never and would never trust her, and all because she felt the call to serve her country. 

"To your credit," he finally acknowledged. 

She softened and they were in real danger of having a fucking _moment_ , but thankfully her look quickly turned mischievous: "Why, Brad, have you stooped to reading blogs?" she asked with an air of horror. 

"How dare you besmirch my honor with such a suggestion. No, _other_ people read blogs and then ask me about them on camera. Fucking media echo chamber."

"And what did you decide? Do I 'diminish Seaborn's liberal cred?'" she asked, airquotes implied, doubtless something their advisers had also debated ad nauseum. 

Brad scoffed. "The political hacks are still arguing if _I_ ruin Nate's cred, liberal or conservative. Calling it 'deciding' would be giving it too much due." 

***

"The hard truth is that voters just don't know what to do with Fick. He used to be a Republican, he's married to a Republican, he used to be in the military where he invaded two countries and killed a lot of people."

"But he's married to a Republican _man_."

"That's exactly my point! Liberals love the gays, but one Republican, one former Republican, both military? No one can wrap their minds around that juxtaposition."

"Maybe they need to open their minds a little more."

"Look, I like Fick, but he's too out-of-the-box. Maybe he'd be a better candidate in the general, but we'll never know because there's no way this guy gets the Democratic nomination."

***

A new month, a new debate, a new opportunity for the mouth-breathers to hurl gross mischaracterizations at the American public like repeating it made it so. Supposedly there was an end to this torture, but Brad might not make it to that point. He was tempted to walk up there and open a vein on live TV; it's what they seemed to want. 

Then again, they'd probably just criticize him for the mess. 

Ainsley greeted him with a tired smile as Brad took his seat beside her. "Think they do reaction shots?" he asked. "If so, you should arrange yourself accordingly. They're stupid, but not so stupid as to neglect asking about gays in the military and fraternization in the ranks." Brad glared at the camera set-ups. Not that it did much good. 

"What do you think about gays in the military?" 

"They exist."

Ainsley smacked him playfully. "I'm serious."

"As am I."

She chuckled appreciatively and then quieted, taking in the preparations for the debate. 

"What? Not going to call me on the fraternization?" Brad goaded her. "We met in the Corps; we _must_ have jumped each other on first sight. Because we fags can't keep our hands to ourselves, you know."

It was possible the relentless questioning of his integrity got to him, just a little bit. 

Ainsley lifted a single, cutting eyebrow. "As if either of you would undermine good order and discipline."

***

"Amidst a contentious Democratic primary, candidates' spouses have now been dragged into the muck, with campaigns notably taking shots at Ainsley Seaborn and Brad Colbert. The spouses of Sam Seaborn and Nate Fick, respectively, they present easy targets for indirectly attacking their husbands. And Colbert does Fick no favors with what's been described as his 'icy reserve.' With voters viewing spouses as a reflection of the candidates, what does it say when your spouse holds positions opposed to your own?"

***

Ainsley smiled at him as he took his seat beside her, but she stayed silent. After so many months doing this, Brad knew she wasn't the type of woman who filled every pause in conversation with mindless chatter, but this silence was conspicuous. Especially given the recent tenor of the race. 

"You're quiet," he prompted. 

"Do I detect concern?" she asked. 

He snorted. "As if I'd concern myself with you."

She continued on like she hadn't heard him: "But I should be asking you. How're you holding up?" 

The question held just enough sympathy that Brad found himself shrugging and giving the real answer, not the media-approved one: "It is what it is." An excruciating slog through shit-crusted shards of glass. But he kept that to himself. 

Even if Nate would've been better off without Brad's presence in his life. Would've been given the respect he was due. 

Ainsley considered him for a moment, a terrible gentleness in her eyes. Then she excused herself. 

At least she didn't try to comfort him. Thank Christ for small mercies. 

Brad idly watched her walk over to speak to Sam, who stood waiting for the debate to begin; Brad's eyes moved past them, unerringly to Nate. Always to Nate. 

Nate returned his look, faintly raising an eyebrow. Brad flicked his eyes to the Seaborns and back again. Nate tilted his chin down: solid copy. 

Sam grabbed Ainsley's hand and smiled at her, softly adoring. Ainsley just shook her head, blond hair shining in the lights, and started back toward her seat. 

Brad looked to Nate, who'd also clocked that, and subtly shook his head once: maybe not. 

When Sam got the question, the perfect attack vehicle with just enough room to make seedy implications, he punted it. 

Brad eyed Ainsley sidelong and muttered, "Thanks."

"I can't imagine what you mean. We're the idealists of the race. We take the high road."

***

_Nate: "You realize I can see you shaking your head at me."_

_Brad: "You kumbaya-singing, organic-fruit-buying, hippie communist."_

_Nate: "Don't sweet-talk me in public, Brad, it's unseemly."_

"A hot mic caught that exchange between presidential hopeful Nate Fick and his husband after last night's debate. The Fick campaign has since issued a statement saying in part, 'No offense intended to any hippie communists, whom we hold in the highest regard.' Such playfulness is run-of-the mill in any discussion of their marriage, despite what a hot-button issue it has become. It's also startling when compared with the more traditional approach of the other candidates."

***

"I'm starting to get recognized," Brad sulked, dropping into his now-customary seat beside her. For the last time, probably, since the debates were winding down. 

Ainsley smiled. "Your husband is running for President. Did you think no one would notice you? Or the Secret Service detail that follows you around?"

"More like a regiment. Christ, I'm tired of that." He could take care of himself, despite whatever half-assed threats had been made. That shit was just talk. He'd like to see someone come up to him and try something. Would relish it, even. 

Besides, the people 'protecting' him didn't even know how to do proper pat-downs. Rank fucking amateurs. 

"You don't get noticed," Brad accused. "You could walk down any street and all people would think is 'hot blonde I'd like to nail.'"

"I'm waiting for the part where you say something that doesn't apply equally to you."

Brad allowed a half-smile. "Our torrid affair must be going well."

"Sex with a side of oppression. What hypocrites, those Republicans."

"Been enjoying your time with the liberal elite?"

She grinned. "Been enjoying it for years. But the cartoons are an added bonus. As is the company."

"And she's a masochist, too." 

"What kindred spirits are we."

Brad snorted. "Not if you think those cliché-ridden, intellectually-barren cartoons are worthwhile as anything more than toilet paper. And not even that. Foxes in the henhouse, Christ."

"Nate as the wolf in sheep's clothing was quite fetching."

"If indicative of the level of thought among our liberal overlords, it's no wonder this country is on its way to becoming a third-world banana republic."

"They call them developing countries now, Brad."

"Proving my fucking point. Because that makes it so much better."

***

_"Did he ever sit in a tin can in a hundred-twenty degree heat, waiting to invade a country? No? Then he can sit down. If he objects to such talk, perhaps next time he should vote **not** to authorize military action. What did he think guys talked about? Puppies and rainbows?"_

"Tough talk from Brad Colbert, husband of embattled Democratic candidate, Nate Fick. The strain of campaigning showed this week, both in the Fick camp as well as the establishment candidate, Sam Seaborn's camp. His wife had her own sharp words for those criticizing her cousin, comedienne Harriet Hayes. Hitting both ends of the spectrum—from the outsiders to the establishment—it's led some to wonder: has the modern political machine gone too far?"

***

"Wow," Ainsley said, openly admiring him in his uniform, standing apart from all the sycophants populating the White House Correspondents' Dinner. 

"Seriously," Brad said, unimpressed. 

"Wow," she repeated. 

Brad shook his head. "And here I thought only the useless women would be taken in by the dress blues. Shame."

"Wow, you must make these people uncomfortable," she said, looking around at the clusters of Democrats, from politicians to pundits to performers, all carefully looking _through_ them. 

"Highlight of my week."

"Not a high bar to hit these days," she said, grabbing a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter. 

Brad studied her more closely. He could see the tiredness there, cleverly masked by an eye-catching gown and flawless make-up.

No one approached her, either.

Brad softened his expression. "You'll be fine."

"Don't be nice to me. I can't take it tonight." Not when they'd undoubtedly be the butt of the jokes. Ray had even devised a drinking game: a shot every time someone mentioned a prostitute. 

He'd be on the floor within the first ten minutes. And not just because of his pitiful alcohol-tolerance and the attendant shame he brought on the good and righteous reputation of the Corps. 

Of course, _Ray_ wouldn't have to smile through the experience. Not like Brad and Ainsley. 

"You'll take it and like it," Brad said, putting a touch of the scolding sergeant in his voice. 

She gulped her Champagne. "I take it back: be nice to me."

"Too late. Offer expired."

"Oh, fine, wimp out."

"You wound me, madam. If it wouldn't interrupt my shaming of the effete ruling class, I'd leave in a huff."

She snickered, her posture relaxing slightly. "I think I'd like to see that."

"Sam's gonna be the nominee; they won't be too rough on you. Can't go eviscerating the wife of the next President. Might hurt the campaign," Brad offered, appallingly kind. He had no idea where this horrifying streak of sentimentality was coming from. It could stop any time now. "Me, on the other hand," he continued, "sky's the limit."

"So you came armed with a dress sword." 

Brad couldn't help his derisive snort. "The sword is part of the uniform. As if I give these reprobates any consideration when they're not in my sight." 

"Yet here you stand, _in uniform_."

It was easy to forget that Ainsley had that kind of insight. If they were smart, they'd use it to their advantage in the general election. 

"If they're going to joke about Nate liking Republican cock, the cameras will damn well capture them mocking a man in uniform. I've been assured this goes down well on the evening news, especially in the flyover states."

Ainsley leaned into him. "Have I mentioned that I'm really glad you're here?"

Brad nodded and lowered his voice. "So, thank you sex in the coat room?"

"You forget: I don't have a dick."

He eyed her curve-hugging black gown. "Not a dealbreaker."

"Nor am I a prostitute. I know you have such affection for those."

"No less than your husband," he agreed. 

It startled a real laugh out of her and Brad's lips curled in response. But soon enough she sagged back against him, the tiredness bleeding through once again. "If I never hear about prostitutes again, it'll be too soon."

"It's the White House Correspondents' Dinner. Better get another glass of that Champagne."

***

"Any moment now we expect the concession speech by Nate Fick, officially acknowledging Sam Seaborn as the Democratic candidate. A longshot from the start, Fick became something of a Cinderella story throughout the Democratic primaries, shocking everyone with his early surge and continued competitiveness, even as controversy swirled around him about his Republican roots and his unapologetically blunt husband. Tonight he'll finally close the doors on his candidacy, but as many Dems are saying, he can be proud of the race he's run." 

***

It felt weird to be watching the event covered on the news, rather than standing in the middle of it. But Nate had taken pity and Brad had taken him up on it, so instead he sat watching from a bar, in jeans and flip-flops, beer sweating it out in front of him. 

Thank _God_. 

He felt a non-threatening presence approaching, but didn't bother to look. Easy enough to guess, given the concession speech and all. 

"I'm taking this," Ainsley said in greeting, grabbing his basket of onion rings and sliding it over one seat. She hopped up onto the stool and dug in, all casual in a ponytail and jeans. You'd never guess she was the wife of the Democratic candidate for President. 

Except for the Secret Service agents taking up strategic positions throughout the hotel bar. That was a clue. 

"Take it," Brad offered, mild. 

"I'm taking this because you owe it to me." She accompanied it with a satisfied crunch, eyeing the news briefly before turning back to Brad.

"Mourning the end of our affair is perfectly understandable; I'm quite the catch." That last part might have come out more bitter than he intended, but he covered by looking at the news, still awaiting Nate.

Ainsley put her hand on his arm, forcing his attention back. "It's not your fault," she said earnestly. Then she released him and moved past that horribly sympathetic look to something more amused: "Besides, it's not all about you." 

"Yet you can't keep your hands off me."

"I'm quite the masochist, hadn't you heard?" She grinned and crunched into another onion ring. 

He snorted. And took a swig of his beer. "Fuck me, I might actually _miss_ you," he said, a little appalled at the realization.

"I'll call you every morning," she vowed.

"You don't have my number."

"Sure, I do. It's in your FBI file."

"You have my FBI file?"

"You get used to that feeling," she said, sympathetic. "And you shouldn't be surprised; we still need to pick a running mate."

Brad boggled at _that_ looming clusterfuck. "It'd be the most attractive ticket in history—in addition to being unprecedented in every other way possible when talking about two blue-state WASPs plagued by liberal guilt." He shook his head at the thought. 

Ray would be _insufferable_. 

Ainsley turned her pleased little smile on him. "So, thirty-second hypothetical..."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
